would care about Charlie Barton’s tragedy as much as he did. The girl he had thought about every hour of that sad day.
Molly Allen.
C HA P T E R E I G H T
T he week before Christmas was insanely busy at the animal rescue shelter. Parents needed gifts for their kids, and by that Friday, four days before Christmas, lots of people were practically desperate. A rescued pet was often the perfect solution. That and the fact that hearts were softer this time of year—more willing to help, more open to visiting the shelter and leaving with a cat or dog.
Molly hadn’t seen so many animals leave with homes since she’d opened the foundation. Even better, she had authorized fourteen music scholarships for kids from foster homes. A music scholarship came only after a child had been a part of the Allen Foundation’s music development program through high school. The years of work with her foundation were paying off. Lives were being changed.
The work had been arduous, since Molly liked to be in on researching each scholarship application and the extent of the need. Still, as she walked into her apartment late that afternoon, as she shook off her umbrella and flipped on the lights, she felt more satisfied than she had all month. She brewed a pot of coffee and opened a can of food for her cat.
“It’s going to be a good Christmas, Sam.” She liked to tell the cat things like that. Saying them out loud made them easier to believe.
Sam meowed in her direction and turned his attention to his food bowl.
Molly pulled out her phone and checked her schedule. She had a show tonight with the children’s theater, a performance of The Nutcracker . Call time was in two hours. She could hardly wait to be surrounded by the music, lost in the story. The play’s director had pulled her aside after the first rehearsal. “You have the talent to play first violin.” She’d raised her brow. “But you don’t have enough time. Or do you?”
“I don’t.” Molly had appreciated the compliment. She might not have made it to the New York Philharmonic, and she might never play Carnegie Hall, butshe had never let her dream die. Tonight she would play second violin.
She smiled. Ryan would have been happy about that, at least.
Her coffee was ready. Molly poured herself a steaming mug, added an inch of organic half and half, and sat down at the kitchen counter. She picked up her phone and thumbed her way to the Twitter app. Time didn’t allow her to check in often, but it was one way to stay in touch with people in the music business, as well as contacts and friends she’d made in Portland. Facebook was too time-consuming, but Twitter was doable.
She scrolled down the timeline, smiling at the occasional reference to shopping frenzies at the mall and failed attempts at wrapping gifts. Then something caught her eye. Maybe out of nostalgia for the past, Molly followed @VisitFranklin—a Twitter account that kept her posted on the happenings of the town she once loved. Somewhere in her heart, she probably hoped to see occasional updates on The Bridge or Ryan Kelly, but that never happened and she generally breezed over the town’s posts.
This one made her set her coffee down, made herbreathing quicken. The tweet didn’t contain much information, but it was enough.
Charlie Barton, owner of The Bridge, still in ICU after car accident. Find out how you can help . At the end of the tweet was a link, and Molly clicked it, her heart skittering into a strange rhythm. Charlie Barton? In ICU? A website opened with a photo of Charlie and another of The Bridge. The headline read FRANKLIN RALLIES IN SUPPORT OF LOCAL BOOKSTORE OWNER . Molly stared at it and then at the pictures.
It wasn’t until she started reading the article that she gasped out loud. Once she got past the details of Charlie’s accident and the devastating effects of the Nashville flood on his store, she reached the part about the book drive.
The effort is spearheaded
Molly Allen.
C HA P T E R E I G H T
T he week before Christmas was insanely busy at the animal rescue shelter. Parents needed gifts for their kids, and by that Friday, four days before Christmas, lots of people were practically desperate. A rescued pet was often the perfect solution. That and the fact that hearts were softer this time of year—more willing to help, more open to visiting the shelter and leaving with a cat or dog.
Molly hadn’t seen so many animals leave with homes since she’d opened the foundation. Even better, she had authorized fourteen music scholarships for kids from foster homes. A music scholarship came only after a child had been a part of the Allen Foundation’s music development program through high school. The years of work with her foundation were paying off. Lives were being changed.
The work had been arduous, since Molly liked to be in on researching each scholarship application and the extent of the need. Still, as she walked into her apartment late that afternoon, as she shook off her umbrella and flipped on the lights, she felt more satisfied than she had all month. She brewed a pot of coffee and opened a can of food for her cat.
“It’s going to be a good Christmas, Sam.” She liked to tell the cat things like that. Saying them out loud made them easier to believe.
Sam meowed in her direction and turned his attention to his food bowl.
Molly pulled out her phone and checked her schedule. She had a show tonight with the children’s theater, a performance of The Nutcracker . Call time was in two hours. She could hardly wait to be surrounded by the music, lost in the story. The play’s director had pulled her aside after the first rehearsal. “You have the talent to play first violin.” She’d raised her brow. “But you don’t have enough time. Or do you?”
“I don’t.” Molly had appreciated the compliment. She might not have made it to the New York Philharmonic, and she might never play Carnegie Hall, butshe had never let her dream die. Tonight she would play second violin.
She smiled. Ryan would have been happy about that, at least.
Her coffee was ready. Molly poured herself a steaming mug, added an inch of organic half and half, and sat down at the kitchen counter. She picked up her phone and thumbed her way to the Twitter app. Time didn’t allow her to check in often, but it was one way to stay in touch with people in the music business, as well as contacts and friends she’d made in Portland. Facebook was too time-consuming, but Twitter was doable.
She scrolled down the timeline, smiling at the occasional reference to shopping frenzies at the mall and failed attempts at wrapping gifts. Then something caught her eye. Maybe out of nostalgia for the past, Molly followed @VisitFranklin—a Twitter account that kept her posted on the happenings of the town she once loved. Somewhere in her heart, she probably hoped to see occasional updates on The Bridge or Ryan Kelly, but that never happened and she generally breezed over the town’s posts.
This one made her set her coffee down, made herbreathing quicken. The tweet didn’t contain much information, but it was enough.
Charlie Barton, owner of The Bridge, still in ICU after car accident. Find out how you can help . At the end of the tweet was a link, and Molly clicked it, her heart skittering into a strange rhythm. Charlie Barton? In ICU? A website opened with a photo of Charlie and another of The Bridge. The headline read FRANKLIN RALLIES IN SUPPORT OF LOCAL BOOKSTORE OWNER . Molly stared at it and then at the pictures.
It wasn’t until she started reading the article that she gasped out loud. Once she got past the details of Charlie’s accident and the devastating effects of the Nashville flood on his store, she reached the part about the book drive.
The effort is spearheaded
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